Eyes wide shut
by Inkfire
Summary: Draco wakes up to unfamiliar surroundings and struggles with his pride and standards. Written for Round Two of Fanfiction's Got Talent on HPFC.


**Here is my response to Round Two of Fanfiction's Got Talent, with the character Draco Malfoy and the prompt "Ball of fire". **

**A DracoGinny, dedicated to the most amazing of all amazing in the history of amazing of the universe of amazing, TuesdayNovember, and because she converted me to the ship, too. Enjoy! **

**(In case it's unclear, this is taking place at Ginny's. And yeah, there's basically no plot, bite me. I like describing.) **

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He lay very still, with his eyes tightly shut, lost to the obscurity underneath his eyelids. The sheets were warm and slightly rough against his skin, trapping him in ways where he didn't quite belong. He accepted it, lay there passive and let the world carry on around him.

The spray of the shower could be heard faintly from the small gap she had left while closing the door. It was faraway still, sufficiently to leave him cool with his wits unmoved. In he breathed, and then out. The scent of coffee slightly touched his nostrils. This one of many details was foreign to him, in the manor the various aromas of breakfast-making would all be confined to the kitchens and of course he did not set foot there.

The chant of the water quietened and he perceived the sound of light bare feet padding around closeby. His eyes remained shut. Steadily, his heart and lungs worked and a fake normalcy, a relaxation all made of self-control suffused throughout his limbs.

The door creaked as it opened softly. He lay in the bed, the opposite of offered, miles and aeons of separation just in the thin, fragile veil of his lowered eyelids. He would not look. For now, he would not look.

He heard the quiet sound of her feet forming a disjointed rhythm around the bed, pit-a-pat pattern that reminded him of the hushed song of rain against the windows, the whispering of deep currents that seeped cold and strong through the glass in a common room that looked underwater. Nights of insomnia blending with frozen days into a snare of a lifetime. Why would he be thinking of this now, he wondered, why here and why with her. The other side of war, the fire against coldness, a fleeting flame of passion, helpless to keep him trapped. And he trapped himself, underneath sealed eyelids, hearing her walk away.

The scent of coffee drifted closer, a warm, tangy foreshadowing of her return. He expected the ringing of her voice next, jeering or annoyed, willing to rouse him from his motionless oblivion of ignoring her. She paced lightly around the bed, he could hear the soft supple sound of her stride, he could smell slight whiffs of perfume as she moved carelessly about. He would not stir and she would not call out. They meandered in their pride, she in restless movement and he, still, just following rampant trains of thought.

The coffee's fragrance teased his nostrils and hovered appealingly to a slowly-growing nervousness at the very pit of his gut. Slowly, he looked like one would admit defeat. He saw the brilliant dusky flame of her hair, darkened by the water, on her shoulders. He saw slim freckled hands folded around a cup. She waited five generous seconds before her upper body pivoted his way, shifting nonchalantly. And here it was, the ball of fire, flaring slow and murderously hot from the bottom of him, spreading, spreading. He could not look away now.

She smirked, defiant, having won a small battle. She stood there, away, ancient blood sparked alive with disdainful liberty of mind. He despised what she was and it enthralled him, kept him keenly on edge the way nothing else could – anymore. He longed to grab her swan neck, the violently red hair, and shake her. And she smiled like she could tell exactly what he was thinking. She tossed back a straying strand of hair and crept closer, sipping her coffee, brown eyes insolently trained on his. When she dropped down on the bed, her bed, the mattress shifted under her weight as though to push them closer together.

He sat up, jaw rigid. Ginny Weasley was drinking her hot beverage with her littlest finger daintily outstretched and he fleetingly thought of his mother, so cool, so haughty and so fair – how delicately her lip would curl as she looked upon the Weasley girl. But they were not to meet, ever.

"Good morning, sunshine," Ginny drawled in a low voice, mouth pressed against her cup as she considered him with an eyebrow half-raised. From where and how he was seated he could make out hints of bare throat beneath her bathrobe and the curve of a waist that looked positively sinful to him. But he pulled himself together. "Good morning," he said stiffly, "I should get dressed."

It was not quite what he had meant, it sounded too much like confessing weakness and she heard it as such – so he was told by the cocky curve of her lips. "Should you." It was not a question at all, it was a sardonic statement and he found himself quite infuriated.

"Certainly," he said icily, and went for his wand.

She let him, not moving an inch, so he would have to brush against her on his way up, or else rise from the other side of the bed, her eyes on him all the while as he hunted for his clothing. He gave up after summoning his robes and underwear from the corners of the room, just leaving them tossed across her chair and sitting still, wand idle between listless fingers, gaze flicking from the sheets to his hand to her quiet motionless form. She smiled a slow lazy smile. They considered one another, all set in their utter differences and the up-chinned rigidity of their pride. And he would surrender, deep down below he could feel it, for he was the most vulnerable of the two – and she was life, she was raw strength, recklessly drawing him to her, flame to brilliant flame.

Just as he would move, she shifted and set the cup aside. Her impatience prevailed over their quiet struggle of wills. She dared him to withdraw as she dipped her head to press her searing lips to his startled mouth.

The fire spoke to his instincts, burning through his cool veins to spark Black blood awake. And he kissed her, not thinking, not holding back.


End file.
